


Vacationers

by Trash_Queen



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Vacation, in morocco, older couple vacationing:the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 08:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18465325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash_Queen/pseuds/Trash_Queen
Summary: “Really, Doctor, when you mentioned a vacation to Earth one could hardly predict vacationing in a place where only a Ferengi could be happy. I would suggest bringing Quark, next time,” He takes a bite of the food. “He would take wonderfully to… all this.”“I doubt Quark would enjoy himself- there’s no money here, remember? Not for most things, anyway.”“Bartering, my dear- give him a package of- what are these, dried figs?- and he’ll have half the market by lunch.”





	Vacationers

Garak did not expect his first excursion to Earth to be in Morocco. Bashir’s city, Tangier, is a colorful, shimmering, iridescent organism, a glittering gem, living and breathing and writhing on top of itself like a colony of bees. Garak slides through the souk, following Bashir like a shadow; the doctor is walking in his own pace, greeting each vendor they stop at like they’re an old friend- the spice stall here, the fruit stall there, the clothiers down the row- practiced fingers pick out food and bauble alike, chatting in clipped tones before he drops them into a basket that Garak has been assigned to hold. Honey, flower, fruit and spice drift up and season the air- he can’t decide how he feels about the smell. Pleasant, or grating? He tries to put it aside, to follow the lithe linen-clad figure through the throng.

 

The city is bright, colorful, busy and warm and humid. Trudging through the market, Garak can’t help but hate it. Whether its the differing cycles of daylight- too short, seemingly no problem for diurnal rodents- the bright city lights that seem to make the distinction irrelevant, the thick crowds that alway press in around them or the mammalian smell that underpins everything; the humidity, perhaps, is the worst part; he misses Cardassia, blessed Cardassia, always warm but never humid, a dry, bracing heat. But this? He laments allowing himself to be led into a swamp.

 

Bashir clearly loves it. He seems to relish in each transaction, the pull of each vendor and performer. He stops at a food stall, leaning into the rich smell of cooked meat and the bite of alcohol. He makes the sign for two, beckoning Garak with another look as he slides over to an empty table a minute later, food and drink in hand. When they finally sit down, Garak leans forward, ignoring the offerings and Bashir’s placating look in favor of frowning disapprovingly at him.

“I take it you’re not enjoying the souk,” Bashir pushes a cup towards him. Garak has had Earth wine before; it can’t hold a candle to Kanar, or even Spring Wine, for that matter, but this is pleasant enough.

“Really, Doctor, when you mentioned a vacation to Earth one could hardly predict vacationing in a place where only a Ferengi could be happy. I would suggest bringing Quark, next time,” He takes a bite of the food. “ _He_ would take wonderfully to… all this.”

“I doubt Quark would enjoy himself- there’s no money here, remember? Not for most things, anyway.”

“Bartering, my dear- give him a package of- what are these, dried figs?- and he’ll have half the market by lunch.”

“Extolling Quark’s virtues? You really mustn’t be enjoying yourself at all,” Bashir took another bite out of his lunch “If it’s not agreeing with you, we can leave early. I’ve some experiments I can make a head start on back home anyway.”

“Nonsense! You’ve been planning this trip for so long. I’ll muddle through, somehow.”

‘Muddle through’ currently meant picking slowly at the lamb kebab. Spiced past the point of reason. Unfortunate.

“I appreciate it.” Bashir smiles at him, reaches to squeeze his unoccupied hand. “Besides- I’m sure there’s something here you’ll like. Tangier has a lot to offer- it’s a city of secrets.”

“Ah! A city after my own heart, it would seem. I do wish you would have mentioned that before we came.”

“We both know you looked it up anyway,” Bashir grinned, finishing his kebab. “What did you find?”

“I believe it was your William Burroughs who said, ‘Tangier is one of the few places left in the world where as long as you don’t proceed to robbery, violence, or some form of crude, antisocial behavior, you can do exactly what you want’- I find I quite like that sentiment, in spite of the rest of it.” He gestures around them.

“Well, what secrets have you found?” Bashir eats a chunk of the lamb.

“There is a man who just sold a handful of rare antiquities from Vulcan; quite a pity they’re stolen. Another is cheating on her wife, with a man from across the bazaar, and another is quite the admirable pickpocket. They’re all present at this little stall with us, I’ll leave it to you to sort out which is which.” He sits back and watches Bashir sort it out. It takes him far too long, of course; even with that brain of his, Bashir doesn’t have the observer’s eye.

“Well, I’d say the man who sold the antiques is over there,” He points to a table to the right of them, the man sipping tea with a teal blue tunic, “The woman cheating there,” She’s alone, behind Garak, turning her ring on her finger absentmindedly as she glances through a padd. “And the pickpocket at the counter.”

“Enjoying a hard-earned lunch, no doubt. Very good, if a dull little diversion.” Another chunk of the lamb slowly disappears. He fears he’s losing his taste for it; Bashir picks up a lemon wedge that had been waiting beside the rice and looks at him questioningly, squeezing the juice out of it when he nods. He takes another bite and finds that the sour helps, but not much.

“You made them all up.” Bashir grinned, twisting the lemon wedge again.

“Not all, no. If you can tell me which, then I suppose you’ll earn reward, Doctor.”

“A reward?”

“Later, of course. When we’re back at our hotel.”

“Hmm. You know I think I’ll pass. I’d rather look around the souk one more time.”

“If you wish,” Garak shrugs.

“There’s an art and antiquities museum I was thinking we could visit tomorrow, if you would like.”

“Yes, I suppose that would do.”

They’re standing up, Bashir gathering his things and Garak thinking about what stories he would make up about who next. There was an ambassador who was supposed to be staying on earth, from Betazed; a reputation that might be diverting to ruin, and Betazoids were always a challenge. Garak usually enjoyed challenges. Alas, he resigned himself to the singularly uninteresting challenge of navigating the city back through the Souk, pondering on how the Betazoid ambassadors reputation perhaps couldn’t stand ruining, but a slight tarnishing might do. A nice little patina of dirt, with the possibility of complete rot later. He may no longer be in the Obsidian Order, but old habits, as they say, die very hard.

 

That night there was no time for selectively tarnishing anyone’s reputation, except perhaps his own, and that was only to their temporary neighbors, so what did it matter _really_? It certainly helped that Bashir’s reputation was dirtied in much the same way, and at the exact same time. Then again, it _was_ Tangiers. They were hardly antisocial vagrants, so a ruined reputation was perhaps out of the question.

 

It seemed to Garak that the darker sides of the city had dissipated in the centuries between William Burroughs tenure here and his own. He sat and sipped hot-mint in a late afternoon tea service, feeling much the way one of the men in those old black-and-white films felt, the villain in the shadowy archway, watching the enemy spy strut around in the hot afternoon sun (Or swim in the sunlit baths that lay uncovered at the center of the courtyard, in this case). He took a moment to scold himself- it seemed he had grown rather maudlin in his time away from Cardassia and The Order. To think of one of those movies Bashir had shown him the other night- a film noir? With down-on-their-luck detectives and seductive femme fatales, and think himself akin to the villain of the whole enterprise! Why, it would seem that the Doctor had gotten to him. He would certainly make the case that Tangiers had, if he knew what Garak was thinking about- he mulled over the different ways it would play out. The gun would be too crude, but a well selected and subtly placed poison, slipped into the hero’s tea-

“What are you thinking about?”

Bashir had swam over to the edge of the pool and was hanging off the side of it, looking up at him before motioning to the tray of finger sandwiches that was stationed next to the teapot. Garak lowered them down obligingly, letting it rest on the ground within arms reach.

“All the different ways the villain in that movie of yours last night could have killed that young man.”

“Oh! Let me guess,” He rested his chin in his hand and proceeded to rattle off his own theories. “A garrote, a snipers rifle, pushing him into traffic,” At that Garak outright laughed. Impractical, my dear doctor. “Poison, perhaps?”

“The man drank like a fish and hardly bothered to think about what was in his cup! Anyone could let a little bit of arsenic or vole poison slip in there quite easily. Quark could even do it, right there on the bar and that man wouldn’t be the wiser!”

“Remind me never to watch spy films with you again,” Bashir smiled.

“After making that promise the last thirty-five times? Unlikely it’ll be kept.” Garak took another sip of his tea.

Bashir gives him an affectionate look before asking him to come for a swim. Garak declines, and Bashir holds his hand out for a freely given cup of tea moving carefully back into the pool, dodging a few other vacationers as he floats over to the small waterfall that feeds it. The rest of the afternoon passed in a similarly leisurely manner, with Bashir coming back for more tea and Garak eventually disappearing behind a copy of _The Never Ending Sacrifice._

Night eventually fell, they found themselves engaged in a large dinner with the other guests in the hotel, Garak sitting next to the Betazoid diplomat and very carefully reigning in any thoughts of his previously panned ruination from her dark, glassy eyes. If she sensed what he had been thinking of (he doubted it) she gave no sign. They indulged in the plates-deep spread of lamb, chicken, green beans, yogurts, fruits, and grains presented to them as they discussed the city, literature, and Garak even trotted out an anecdote about an excursion on Betazed that went over better with her than he thought it would, as it involved the accidental destruction of several antiquities. The main courses were whisked away after a time, and Garak found himself in the pleasant space between other people’s conversations. The diplomat had began chatting with other guests, and Bashir was arguing animatedly with someone across the table. Desert was equally vast plates of fruit, more alcohol and more yogurt, and he is soon face to face with Bashir over dried figs and tea. He sees the lines under his eyes, the little bit of grey peeking out at his temples, underneath dye- forever a victim of his own vanity, he notes with fondness- and sees in his face a joy that wasn’t present in the replimat on Deep Space Nine, or their kitchen on Cardassia. Garak understands, suddenly, why Tangiers is so special- not the words of Burroughs, the vivid colors or the hot tea or cold beer or immaculate pools. Tangiers is special because it is held in Bashir’s eye. The whole of the city is reflected in his gaze, and Garak still finds the sun overbearing, the spice cloying and the constant movement almost dizzying, but the beauty of the empathy Bashir has long been cultivating in him is a deep and genuine appreciation of what others hold dear. 

“Enjoying dinner?” Bashir smiles at him, chewing a piece of fresh fig.

“I am, actually. I find these,” He holds up a chunk of pomegranate. “Quite delightful, actually.”

They spend the rest of the meal in each others company, deep in the kind of conversation that Garak used to despise, almost devoid of twists, turns, lies and double entendres. It’s the most pleasant one he thinks he’s had since they’ve arrived, the dry, tart-sweet pomegranate arils and more hot mint tea peppering the conversation until they return to their room.

They spend the rest of the night curled on the pile of pillows and blankets that constituted a bed, in a room that just barely looked over the city. The nighttime wind was almost uncomfortably cool, and the twinkling amber lights on the ground kept them from seeing all the stars, and the night passed with chapters of _The Never Ending Sacrifice_ and stanzas from a tattered book of Klingon poetry they a previous guest had left behind. It’s slow, and simple, and Garak finds he likes Tangiers much better at night, soft and slow and lit up by small earth-bound stars, despite the chill that he has to ward off with Bashir’s legs over his.

Their last full day in Morocco comes a few nights later, and before the sun comes up Bashir is waking him, striding in with small cups of strong coffee and pastry before he’s being dragged out of bed, quickly dressed and pushed into a small craft. He’s never been a particularly heavy sleeper, but that still doesn’t mean that he enjoys being dragged out of bed at odd hours. He looks blearily at Bashir, sitting in the dark window and hopes he knows how much he would rather _still be_ asleep.

They touch down an hour later; the sun still isn’t up, and Garak’s eyesight doesn’t reveal much to him when he’s ushered off the ship- he sees the vague shape of some low structure he’s being led to, with the soft whir of the ship blowing sand past their ankles. It’s unfortunately cold, and Bashir stumbles a bit as they trip down a small dune, artificially created by a low cider block wall before pulling him down to rest on what feels like a blanket.

“It’s going to be about an hour, if you want to go back to sleep,” He says.

“What for? Whatever happens in an hour, I suppose the point of it would be to wake me up.”

“Very perceptive, I’m surprised you guessed.”

The next house is occupied by sleepy chatter, and Garak finds himself drifting back and forth between sleep and wakefulness until a small, sea-colored sliver appears on the horizon. It grows, slowly, He feels Bashir move against him, leaning over to reach for what turns out to be a basket. The sea-colored strip expands to fill the sky, Bashir pulls a small thermal saucer and teapot out of the basket, and before he knows it finds himself watching the sun rise with a hot cup of red leaf tea as a vast desert unfolds around them. It’s a large, uniformly red-orange expanse, so unlike Cardassian deserts. The sands are stirred by a gentle wind, and Garak and Bashir sip their tea as the sun rises.

“Where are we?”

“The Sahara desert. The northern side, closest to Morocco.”

“I remember seeing it on the map,” Garak nodded. “It’s quite vast. And beautiful.”

“It’s the largest desert in the world. It’s smaller now than it used to be- it had actually grown throughout the nineteenth and twenty-second centuries before the desertification effort. These bunkers are left over from the eugenics wars,” Bashir motions to the low structure beside them. “There’s supposed to be ruins out in the sand, of one of the base cities built by augments. No one’s been able to find it though, so it’s probably just a legend.”

“An enticing possibility! A lost city in the desert- is there a dashing hero on a quest to find it perhaps?”

Bashir just chuckles, reaching to refill their cups. The rest of their day is spent solitary in the desert- they climb the sloping dunes in the mid morning sun, take their lunch- a lush spread of Cardassian and Moroccan dishes, snacks, treats consumed with books and wine- in the cool shadow of the bunker, lounging in the sand and each others company. It was the most pleasant day of their vacation so far, in Garak’s own opinion.

The ship returned after sundown, while they were watching stars and pointing out constellations- Earth’s, Cardassian approximates, ones of their own invention. Before long they’re back at their hotel, dumping sand out of their shoes and clothes, and Garak is thanking Bashir with a kiss- the kind people give in greeting, one on each cheek, and the more intimate kind.

“You know, I had my misgivings about this place,” He said when he pulled back. “But I do believe you’ve given me cause to enjoy it.”

“I’m glad you liked it. I’m glad I could share a part of my planet with you,” Bashir smiled. “Do you think you’ll want to come back?”

“ _If_ we can revisit the Sahara, I believe I’ll be amenable.”

“I’ll make note of that. But I was thinking the Mongolian Steppes, perhaps- they’re similar to the plains on Cardassia three. I think you’d rather enjoy them.”

Garak pretended to think it over, making a face like he was deep in thought before agreeing.

The next morning they were on the shuttle to their ship, going back to Cardassia. All of Morocco glittered below them, shimmering and writhing on top of itself, cradled between the edges of a vast red-orange sea and a large blue expanse.


End file.
